Centum House x Chase
by astrathnine
Summary: 100 ways. 100 breaks. 100 downfalls. Two men, one hundred drabbles, one broken relationship. [HxC] [dedicated to lex]
1. 085 Spiral

Centum House x Chase

085 Spiral

For Chase, life around Gregory House was chaotic, stressful, and void of most important emotions. Foreman felt indignities, and Cameron was resentful. Eric was full of his intelligence and his knowledge and his belief that he had House figured out. Allison developed a strong dislike for authority (but only from House), and an even _larger_ bleeding heart.

Chase remained the same. Following Greg, taking his insults, his scorn, his playful side when it tried to emerge.

--

When they were treating Powell, at the lowest moment of the lows, there was a small moment of understanding. It was brief and it was cool, when House was filling the syringe with morphine and his eyes met Chase's, the last pair of three. Those half crazed and entirely intelligent eyes, steely and they dared him to leave.

Dared him, but he was rooted to the spot. He wouldn't (couldn't) leave like Eric and Allison. They had abandoned House. He was crazy and delusional and psychotic, and Rob knew that. He _knew _it. But all he would do was meet Greg's cold blue eyes, before turning to slide the glass door shut and pull the blinds closed.

Greg slid the needle in. Chase watched with bated breath as Powell drifted away, eyes sliding closed and mouth falling gently open. He stilled. Rob was suddenly exhausted. He opened his mouth to speak, and then House opened his.

And then in all went to shit. Here he had _thought _things were spiraling out of control _before, _and as House wheeled Powell out the door, he wanted to scream.

--

Later Chase wondered how far House would fall. He had already slipped once and landed on a ledge half way down, and thought it was the bottom. Now that he's started climbing back up to the top of the cliff…how long will it take for him to get a running start and fall down the abyss _properly_? His leg was hurting again, but at least he had control. For now. How long would it last?

Rob made an incision into Powell's chest cavity, and went about the open lung biopsy before the rapid beeping started, signifying something was going wrong. As per usual.

Again, as per usual, House limped in, fixed the problem, and left again.

It was always touch and go. Off. On. Off. On. Find the problem. Fix the problem. Watch the problem evolve. Fix it again. And again. And again.

One day, the cycle would stop. Robert wasn't sure when and how and why, but he knew it would.

Everything ends.

Everything.

a.n/ All one hundred of these are dedicated to Lex, who started me going again on this fandom. Just as promised. 3


	2. 010 Breathe Again

Centum House x Chase

010 Breathe Again

* * *

It's taken a while for him to come back to normal. The pain returned, the brilliance returned, but the small glimmer of hope House had during the Ketamine treatment won't. 

He droped the running shoes in the trash bin, and fished his cane from the closet.

That's all that's left now. He stared at it, sleek and polished and indifferent to being used for a moment or a year. He leaned back into his sofa, and stared at the crackling tv. The static danced and Greg looked right through it, twirling his cane. He had rummaged through the house and used the last Vicodin he had hidden, then turned down Wilson's offer of more. He felt out of breath and his leg throbbed.

He would bear it. This was his cross to bear, limp be damned.

--

Greg came into the office to face his ducklings. Two minutes in and he was exasperated with Cameron already, who was a mother hen without any chicks. He was vaguely annoyed at Foreman when he talked about rehab and more drugs, and indifferent to Chase, who said nothing but watched him carefully. House turned to the whiteboard, and struggled to take in enough air.

--

Another case, another mystery to solve. The details pulsed through House's brain like adrenaline, possibilities rising up and being struck down inside his head. He shooed the trio away, telling them to perform various menial tasks and tests. He chucked a ball against the wall, the comforting _tha-thunk tha-thunk_ easing the idleness of his body and allowed him to focus purely on his thoughts.

House didn't know how long he was in the office, nor did he care. Hour by hour flew by, and morning eased into afternoon, which in turn eased into evening.

He rose unsteadily, and was mildly surprised to see a plate covered in aluminum foil sitting at the glass table along with a note hardly legible. He hobbled over and slid the note out from under the ceramic, squinting at the poor handwriting. He pieced together that it was food and that it was for him and he should eat it. Unsigned, but the handwriting was familiar.

Sitting down, House started unwrapping the plate, already beginning to go through process of elimination to find out who it was from. Ooh, enchiladas. Still slightly warm. He peered at the note again while shoveling food down his throat, eying it. Too loopy to be Wilson, and Wilson wouldn't give him any food anyway. It was always for him, and then House would go have to hijack his plate for a few moments.

One of his ducklings? Eric's handwriting was smaller. More confined. And Allison's was loopy like this but far more girly and a little bit neater. That left Chase, and now that he had narrowed it down it clicked. The whole process took maybe a minute, and half the enchiladas were polished off by then.

--

Two days later, House idly commented to Chase during a lulled moment that he didn't know he could cook. He sheepishly admitted he didn't and bought takeout. Claimed to have extras, or some rot.

House turned to the whiteboard and smirked, and Chase said nothing but turned his head away, ignoring the pointed looks from Foreman and Allison. Breath came easier than before, his chest looser.

--

Two _weeks _later, with another case and with House deep in thought, and midnight approaching fast, Chase slipped in with more food. He left no note, but knew he wouldn't need to. When House emerged from his mind, he grinned crookedly and made note to embarrass Robert more often than usual. House sat down, and set his cane against the chair. He popped open the Chinese food box and broke apart the cheap wooden chopsticks.

Small gestures were just that, small. The betrayal of both Wilson and Cuddy still lingered in the back of his mind, and bitterness was encroaching upon him. So even the little things helped, House supposed, and slurped up warm Lo Mein, no longer needing extra pants to catch his breath. He finally had some air.

---

a.n/ I don't know what to think about this one.


End file.
